Jubilee
by morethenwords122
Summary: God is judging you, Stiles... and he's not happy. A Boy who has always gotten everything he's ever wanted, anyway that he can get it, soon learns that there are just somethings that can't ever be fixed... or atoned for? (AU, no supernatural elements)
1. Jubilee

Title: **Jubilee **

Disclaimer: **I own nothing. The characters are the property of Jeff Davis and MTV. No Copyright infringement intended. **

Summary: _God is judging you, Stiles... and he's not happy._

**A boy who has always gotten everything he's ever wanted, anyway that he could get it, soon learns that there are just somethings that can never be fixed... or be redeemed for?**

A/N: **This story will be _very _experimental. There will be angst, and I will deal with very dark subject matter in this story. So, read responsibly! I do have a few places that I will go with this story, but nothing definite... but one thing for sure is that this story will not have a happy ending.**

**All Comments and constructive criticism is welcomed... but please don't be outright mean. No writer deserves that. Oh, and a special thanks to my beta O2shea, who encouraged me to post this story despite its dark subject matter.**

* * *

**another year for playing children/ another songs for them to sing/ i'm not alone, but I still believe in this Jubilee** – (jubilee, Benji Hughes)

* * *

A test.

It's a test that ruins his life… and it is a pretty good life, too. The best life money can buy, really. He hadn't become the most popular guy in school entirely on his good looks. Sure, there was some raw talent, natural charm, and the ability to cleverly manipulate people into getting what he wants that helped him successfully climb to the top of the harsh and critical ladder of high school … but really, Stiles owes much of his success to being able to waste money on idle matters like it's nobody's business.

Money is what got him that co-captain spot on the Beacon Hills High lacrosse team…Sure, he's a talented lacrosse player, but not talented enough to make first-string. Money is what also got him Lydia Martin – the hottest girl in school, to be his girlfriend. Money is what brought friends, popularity, and the endless supply of insecure horny girls willing to sleep with him… despite the fact that he's supposed to be 'taken'.

So, yeah… Money is important. Money is what makes a pretty good life-_great_. It makes the world go round; it makes Stiles' life pretty _fucking_ easy… But no amount of money could buy his way out of or erase this one.

A test is what tilts his life on its axis, shaking the ground beneath him. It's a printed out white piece of printer paper that makes him question things that he never questioned before. It's his own mind that makes him realize that maybe money couldn't fix everything.

Because, really, what amount of money could fix the fact that he has a brain tumor the size of Jupiter lodged deep in his brain and a minimal chance of living past his eighteenth birthday?

How much does it cost to keep him from dying? He really wants to know.

In fact, it isn't a test that ruins his life, it's a headache.

* * *

He pauses briefly near the sliding doors that lead out of the hospital, when he sees Lydia parked outside, sitting in her corvette, staring at her perfectly manicured nails with boredom.

He has to fight the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her. He forgot that she had volunteered to pick him up after his appointment. Pushing aside his urge to scream, he neatly folds the paper with his results on it, stuffing the papers deep into his left-hand back pocket of his custom-made jeans before he walks out of the hospital and into her car, slamming the door for good measure.

"How did it go?" she asks, not sounding the least bit interested in the answer. And he isn't at all interested in telling her.

"Fine," he says sharply, staring out the window. "Now, can we go?"

* * *

He can barely breathe by the time Lydia parks her car in the garage of her two-story house. He's still staring out the narrow window when she cuts the engine, trying to gain control of his breathing. He inhales deeply, filling his lungs up with air… and holds it.

His vision begins to blur around him, shapes thinning to a fine line in his view. He feels like he's drowning, trying to fight to the surface for one last breath… but he holds on, denying himself the pleasure of air.

Was this what it feels like to die? Wanting to breathe, but your body just not allowing you to… constantly fighting for that last gasp of air, for that last moment of life? Is dying like drowning? Or is it like holding your breath until you just can't breathe anymore? Beginning to black out, he decides to exhale. His breathing is harsh and loud, gasping… panting. He sighs audibly, throwing his head back against the small head-rest of the car and rubs his neck. He turns, after a few moments, and pops one eye open.

Lydia has a familiar look on her face, one he knows too well. It is her nice way of being annoyed and disinterested, while trying to fake concern at the same time. It is a look that constantly makes him want to slap her… but he doesn't need her concern. He doesn't need anybody's superficial version of pity… most of all hers.

She continues to stare at him intently as the silence begins to become stifling in the small interior of her car. Her perfectly manicured eyebrow is raised, questioning. He doesn't like it, not at all… The look feels too friendly, too full of genuine curiosity and concern… It touches something deep inside his being that makes everything feel too_ intimate_… too _heavy_. He wants it to stop.

And after a few minutes he can't take it anymore… so he smirks, giving her an odd, disconnected leer. "How about we go up to your room, huh?" he asks with deadly charm, fighting for normalcy, something commonplace in their everyday interactions. Once again, he uses sex as a way to push her away, for her to become disgusted and uninterested in him again. He's using it as a default to the clutter suddenly clouding up his mind. He puts his hand on her thigh, brushing the fabric of her short skirt up and down her creamy skin.

"We're studying," she snaps, swatting his hand away. She opens and closes the driver's door with a slam.

He breathes… suddenly relieved, despite everything. The idea of sex right now hadn't appealed to him either.

"Of course, we are." He replies shortly, trying to sound put out for the sake of appearances. He climbs out of the car and slams the door behind him for the second time today.

* * *

As they study that night, he rubs his bare feet against the fine fabric of the quilt that lies across Lydia's queen sized bed. Lydia's eyes flutter briefly as she plays with the pen in her mouth… and in that moment, she looks like an angel… like someone who can understand anything.

This makes Stiles briefly wonder about telling her the results of his test, about his brain tumor… but he soon scoffs at the idea, pushing the thought to the back of his head as she reads him another passage out of their history book.

She wouldn't care that he was dying. Lydia doesn't care about anything but herself and money… and in that order. No, he definitely isn't going to tell anybody… especially not Lydia.

* * *

He has an odd dream that night. It's more like a memory, really- a memory that he's somehow stuffed to the deepest, darkest corner of his mind over time, never to be thought of again. It isn't an important memory, at least not to him… Not anymore. It's ancient history and rightfully belongs in the past… but he still dreams about it vividly.

It's a memory that he isn't even thinking about until he wakes up in a cold sweat, screaming….

He dreams about Scott McCall.

* * *

_"__Stiles, man…" Scott McCall whispers shyly. He looks toward the locker room showers behind him before he goes on. "You can't tell anybody!" Scott exclaims desperately, gesturing wildly with his hands. _

_Stiles tries to suppress an eye roll as he puts the rest of his lacrosse gear on. He shrugs his shoulder and says nonchalantly. "Who am I gonna tell, McCall?" _

_Scott has a curious look on his face as he continues. "Whoever you fuck around with is your own business," Stiles finishes with a jerk of his shoulder pads. "Even if it is a teacher." he winks arrogantly. _

_Scott blows a sigh of relief and claps his hands together happily. "Thanks, man! I owe you one!"_

_Stiles just smiles and goes off to practice._

* * *

Stiles is astonished at their ability to pretend around each other… like lying to the other has become second nature to them… almost like a game each wants desperately to win.

John Stilinski doesn't even acknowledge his son's disheveled state as he walks down the stairs and into the kitchen. He can almost hear his dad's thoughts… hear him chalking up his wild hair, dirty clothes, and bloodshot eyes to a late night partying and having sex with his beautiful girlfriend.

And Stiles is fine with that… He's fine with his dad knowing nothing about his life.

It's better than him knowing the truth.

* * *

It's unusual that Lydia is the first person he sees when he walks into school. It's even more unusual that the first thing out of her mouth is declarations of love and adoration. It unsettles him. Lydia is never this nice…especially not to him.

"What do you want?" he snaps, pushing her away from him. It's too early in the morning for this shit.

"What? A girl can't tell her boyfriend that she loves him?" she asks, rather loudly and kisses him on the cheek, ignoring his obvious discomfort. He raises his eyebrow.

Lydia never tells him that she loves him…. because Lydia doesn't love anything, not even her parents… the same parents who think that Stiles is the perfect blue blood marriage material for their daughter or _his_ father, who pampers her because he believes that Lydia is a good influence on his son… No, Lydia doesn't love anything… most of all him.

He feels a brief moment of panic that maybe she _knows_… until he turns his head to the left and sees Jackson Whitmore leaning against a row of lockers next to their homeroom, glaring. Stiles sighs, deciding to play along and ignore what her sudden display of affection and love is about.

He isn't stupid. He knows that Lydia is just about as faithful as he is, which means that between them they have a multitude of lovers stashed in the background of their 'perfect' relationship… but it still doesn't stop the sharp ping of hurt that stabs him in the dark hole of his heart every time he remembers that she may be capable of some semblance of loving someone besides herself… it's just not him that she's capable of loving.

He's not so sure if anyone is.

**TBC...**


	2. A Wolf At The Door

**dance you fucker dance you fucker/ get the flan in the face/ don't you care/ help me call the doctor**\- (a wolf at the door, Radiohead)

* * *

"Stilinski!" Someone familiar yells as Stiles walks onto the field, carrying his lacrosse stick. He doesn't have to turn around to know that it's Greenberg.

"Hey, Greenberg," Stiles says politely, smiling a little, despite the fact that Greenberg is annoying pain in the ass. He can tell that even Greenberg is surprised that he's acknowledging his presence today... and truth be told, he is a little too. Because, well, he's _Greenberg_ and everybody absolutely despises the little shit, even Coach hates his guts… but he smiles anyway and asks Greenberg about his day.

He doesn't really listen as Greenberg rattles on about something or other before drifting off into his own head, thinking about McCall. He sighs, rubbing his forehead in frustration.

Before last night, he hasn't thought about Scott McCall since freshman year. If he is being honest with himself, he actively tries to avoid thinking about that period in his life that he'd known about McCall's secret. There was too much guilt in how that all had gone down, in that time where everything he had orchestrated and planned had collectively and methodically blown up in his face… with the end result being something that not even he could have suspected. It wasn't his greatest con and it was one that he wished he could take back, simply because it had brought him nothing in return.

In short, Stiles doesn't think about Scott McCall _at all_… at least, not since he killed himself.

* * *

_Stiles lingers back after Mr. Hale's last class ends, dropping the gym bag he had been carrying on the floor next to him and propping his butt on the now empty desk beside him. He hums softly, playing with a forgotten pencil as he waits for Mr. Hale to notice his presence._

_"__Mr. Stilinski…" Mr. Hale says a few minutes later, stacking the papers of his latest pop quiz neatly on his desk. "What can I do for you?" He asks. _

_Stiles grins, giddy._

_"__I have a very pertinent question for you, Mr. Hale." Stiles begins mockingly, twirling around the pencil in his hand, treating the impending breach of topic like a game. "Do you fuck all your students… or is Scotty just special?" he finishes with a drawl, smirking a little when he sees Mr. Hale's eyes widen in fear before a cold mask of indifference crosses his face. _

_Stiles feels a familiar surge of excitement rush through him, '_This is going to be interesting',_ he thinks briefly before snapping his game face back on. __It's moments like this that Stiles loves. He doesn't play the game for the rewards; he plays for those tiny flickers of fear that he causes to run across his victims' faces before he goes in for the kill._

_"__I don't know what you're talking about, Stilinski," the teacher retorts coldly and with a hard jerk of his hand he waves Stiles away, his focus returning back to the papers on his desk. "So, if you have nothing important to ask…" _

_Stiles tsks. "Don't play dumb with me," he interjects, jumping off the desk he's sitting on. "You should be more careful where you decide to play tongue hockey, _Derek_." Stiles say his teacher's name with an arrogant flourish, like they were old friends having a simple chit-chat. "And I would play nice with me if I were you… you don't know what other important secrets I may know about your tender love affair with McCall that I have stashed away for later." _

_Mr. Hale sighs, defeated. Stiles can see every muscle in Mr. Hale's body deflate; fear and dejection replacing his once angry and defensive stance and Stiles can't help but smile. He's got Mr. Hale right where he wants him._

_ "__What is it you want, Stilinski?" _

_Stiles cocks his eyebrow, shrugging. "What makes you think I want something?" _

_Mr. Hale frowns. "You must…" he pauses. "Or else you wouldn't have brought _it _up." _

_Stiles loves how Mr. Hale can only refer to his carnal relations with McCall as _it… _like it's something dirty and to be ashamed of… and Stiles can tell that his reward is going to be even greater than before. It's the ones who are ashamed who always go above and beyond when they're being blackmailed and Stiles is almost tempted to make his demands known now… But what would be the fun in that? _

_Stiles didn't go around playing these types of games for the rewards… He wants to watch his victims squirm for a few days before getting what he wants. _

_ "__I don't want anything," he says with a tone of boredom. Now that Mr. Hale has given up the fight, he isn't any fun anymore. He collects his gym bag off the floor and begins to walk out of the classroom, when he says, "But I'll let you know when I do."_

* * *

Stiles misses about six goals, ruins more than one perfect pass, and almost breaks his left arm on a block from Danny.

Finstock is so pissed that he makes him run suicides for about an hour after practice.

* * *

"I'm having a party this weekend," Malia says softly, and her bare breasts press against his shoulder blades gently just before Stiles gets up and puts his clothes back on. "You gonna come?" She asks, her tone sounding sweet and seductive. Her hand traces the outline of his denim covered crotch, rubbing the bulge there.

He shrugs his shoulders, feeling her nipples rub against the fabric of his tee-shirt as he slips on his last shoe. "If Lydia wants to," he replies shortly, not feeling at all apologetic when he hears Malia sigh in disappointment. She knows the rules. He always shows up anywhere socially important with Lydia… It's law. In fact, it's the only thing that he and Lydia are in total agreement about—they always stick together when they're going to be seen out in public. It's just easier that way.

"Seriously…" Malia huffs, shoving him off her bed.

Stiles lands on the ground hard, rolling his eyes. He doesn't have time for this and besides, Malia's throwing a fit over nothing. She knows that Lydia always goes to her parties because hanging out and partying at Malia's house on the weekends is the socially acceptable thing to do when you're popular at Beacon Hills High.

"Can't you come alone?" she asks, yanking her bed sheets over her naked body and giving him a piercing look. Her look says that she's punishing his insolence with the threat of no sex and Stiles has to suppress the urge to laugh at her stupidity… He's done with her for now anyway.

"No." He answers her question simply, unemotionally. He's not going to sweat it. If she won't put out on the night of her party, some other girl will. He gets up off the floor.

"Fine," she resigns. "If her highness feels up to it, I'll meet you up here at about twelve-thirty, okay?"

He just nods his head, slips on his jacket, and grabs his keys, and heads out the door.

* * *

"We've been at this for hours, Dad."

"And we're going to keep at it until you can pinpoint every mistake you made," his dad replies, rewinding the video tape to the last goal he missed at last Friday's game and pauses it. Stiles just sighs, holding his face in both hands. It's no use arguing when his dad gets like this; it's best to just suck it up and do as he's told.

"Okay," Stiles says timidly.

"Good; watch this and tell me what you did wrong." His dad hits the play button.

Stiles watches a digitized version of himself racing down the lacrosse field, his movements precise and quick as he twirls the lacrosse stick in his hands, dodging attempts to thwart his mission toward his opponents' goal post… and then he sees the moment where everything went wrong. He tries to shoot the ball into the net when his opponent comes out of left field and sacks him, making his shot angle to the left and away from the goal post.

"What did you do wrong?" his father asks, pausing the video.

Stiles shakes his head. "I looked right when I should have looked left…" he trails off, uncertain. The way he sees it, the play's actually perfect… He didn't make any mistakes in deciding to risk shooting the ball when he did; he moved at the right times and into the right places; and he was quick when he needed to be… His opponent had just been better and more prepared for his move. Simple enough, a cut and dry answer… but not for his father… To his father, Stiles had been the one in the wrong… he was too slow and ill prepared for the unexpected. Improvements were to be made on his performance… but then again, Stiles can never do anything quite right in his father's eyes

"No!" his father yells, throwing the remote at him.

Stiles ducks, the remote barely missing his head by an inch.

"We're watching it again!" his father huffs, taking another sip of his beer and Stiles gets up to go and grab the remote, hoping it's not broken.

* * *

He replays the message over and over again. His hands shake with sweat as he listens to the male voice on the recording talk, but he stopped hearing the actual words a long time ago. Once the message is over, Stiles hangs up the phone for what feels like the millionth time, closing it with a snap before he flips it back open and redials his voicemail. He listens once again to the authoritative voice on the end of the line, saying:

_"__This is Doctor Richard Levitt from Beacon Hills' Pediatric Cancer Ward. This message is for Mr. Stiles Stilinski… Please make an appointment to discuss various treatment options that we can provide. You must have a parent or guardian accompany you as they will be required to sign some important documents. We need to hear from you as soon as possible. Thank you for your prompt response."_

He hangs up again but this time he swears loudly and violently. _Shit. Shit. Shit. _What's he going to do? He can't take his father… It's just not an option and he can't just ignore this message. He was lucky that the doctor had called his cell phone instead of the house phone. No, he can't involve his father in this, not when Stiles himself just wants it all to go away … but maybe he knows someone he can ask for a favor.

Stiles opens his phone, scrolling through his contacts for a number he hasn't dialed in a long time… not since Derek and Scott. He presses the green call button next to the contact and hears the phone begin to dial it. It isn't picked up until the fourth ring.

"Peter," Stiles say quickly, leaving no room for small talk. "I need your help."

**TBC...**


	3. Fake Plastic Trees

**she looks like the real thing/ she tastes like the real thing/ my fake plastic love/ it wears me out, it wears me out**\- (fake plastic trees, Radiohead)

* * *

_"__He broke up with me…" Scott trails off, crying a little. Stiles opens his locker, frowning. _

_"__What are you being a baby about, McCall?" he asks, feigning annoyed confusion… but he has a pretty clear idea of who he's talking about. His frown deepens. Hale is going to fuck up his entire plan with this melodramatic bullshit._

_"__Derek broke up with me!" Scott exclaims loudly in the middle of the Goddamn school hallway, earning a few stares from the other students passing by. Stiles slams his locker shut with a loud bang, grabbing hold of Scott's arm hard, yanking it a little. _

_"__Say it a little louder, McCall," he spits viciously as he shakes Scott's arm, letting his frustrations show. "I'm sure Principal Holden didn't hear you." _

_"__I'm sorry… I'm jus-" Scott tries, but Stiles waves him off. _

_"__You need to man up and stop being a bitch," he whispers softly, losing some of his fire. He slips back on his cool mask of indifference back on and loosens his hold on Scott's arm a little. He sighs and tells himself to calm down. This isn't anything he can't handle… He just has to let Mr. Hale know that this isn't acceptable… that this isn't a part of the plan. _

_This is Stiles' game and he'll be damned if some butt-fucking faggot is going to ruin it. "And don't worry," Stiles says with a flick of his flannel collar. "I'll fix it." _

_"__No!" Scott's eyes widen in fear for a moment before tearful sadness takes over his puppy dog features again. "He doesn't know that I told you." He whispers, sounding frantic and desperate and, for a moment, Stiles feels a small ping of guilt for what he's about to do, for what's about to come… but he pushes the feeling aside. _

_He almost wants to slap himself for his moment of weakness. Derek deserves what's coming, he should been more careful about who he went around fucking and, while Scott is nice company and has been his best friend since kindergarten, it isn't his fault that he's stupid and gullible. _

_ "__It's okay… we'll find some way to fix this," Stiles says with a sickly sweet tone to his voice, making him want to vomit. He hopes that he sounds supportive and sincere. _

_"__Nobody hurts my best friend." Stiles grins, gripping Scott's neck affectionately before pulling in him in for a hug and, after a few hesitant minutes, Scott hugs him back, his grip tight and seeking comfort. _

* * *

Stiles wakes up with a start, burying his head into his pillow to suppress the screams that are threatening to leave his throat as another wave of agonizing pain builds up in his head and swipes through his entire body. It feels like a hot poker stabbing him repeatedly in the temple, making his whole being throb and ache with the white-hot jolts of searing pain that course through him.

"Does it hurt?" a familiar voice asks and Stiles stiffens. His whole body begins sweating. The doctor had said that, from where his tumor was pressing against his brain, he would begin to experience hallucinations… It only seemed fitting that he would begin to see _him_.

"I hope it hurts." Scott growls, his tall frame looming over him with his nose almost pressed against his face. Stiles could swear that he can almost felt the heat of Scott's breath brush against his face.

Stiles feels like sobbing, screaming… anything to wake up himself up from this dream—this nightmare. It has to be a dream; he refuses to believe that this little episode is anything but his mind playing tricks on him… because Scott McCall is dead and has been for the last three years.

He also pushes away the wave of shame and guilt that tries to take over him. It wasn't his fault that Scott killed himself… was it? He did nothing wrong; it was Scott's fault that everything happened the way it did. He shouldn't have been stupid enough to start fucking Derek Hale… right?

Besides, in his own sick way, Stiles had been trying to protect him. It was only a matter of time before someone like Derek Hale would break someone as sensitive and emotional as Scott… He had done what he believed was right… And so what if he had expected something in return? It was his right.

"Go away… You're not real," Stiles says firmly, pushing his irrational thoughts to the back of his mind. He's only dreaming… just dreaming.

"I'm as real as it gets," Scott says, inching closer to him. "Or as real as I can get for you." Scott chuckles gleefully, clicking his tongue. "Hallucinations," Scott adds.

He moves away from Stiles' face and walks over to his dresser, playing around and sniffing the colognes placed there. "I heard those are a bitch… they tend to rank right up there with traitor best friends, don't you think?" he asks rhetorically, pushing the cap to one of the colognes back on with a loud pop that makes Stiles flinch. His head suddenly hurts once again as another sharp, swift pain rushes through him.

Stiles has never felt this kind of pain before… it's debilitating. It's making him have weak thoughts; he wants to say a million stupid things… like how he's so sorry. That he never meant for things to get as bad as they did. How he wishes he could take it all back and start over… He doesn't realize until this moment how much he's actually missed Scott and, for some reason, he suddenly wants this 'Scott' before him to know that… to know all of these pathetic things that are swirling around in his mind, jumbling up his thoughts and making the throbbing pain worse.

Maybe if he apologizes… he can escape it. But before he can open his mouth to say all these things, Scott snorts, his face bitter and his lips curled into a sneer.

"I don't care about your half-assed apologizes, Stilinski," he bites out, sounding angry and vicious… nothing at all like the Scott he once knew. "It won't do any good where you'll be going… God judges and he's been judging you, Stiles, and he's not pleased," Scott finishes, grinning widely.

He's still smiling wickedly when he says, "But for now… I'm going to have fun."

* * *

_Stiles fishes the phone out of his pocket, answering the call with a quick flick of his hand._

_"__What?" a male voice asks roughly on the other end of the line, making Stiles roll his eyes. Peter could be such a dick sometimes. _

_"__Your nephew, that's what…" Stiles spits out, rubbing his forehead in frustration. "He's screwing up my plans." He finishes with a sigh._

_"__Oh, you mean, _my_ plans…that I was generous enough to cut a deal with you on," Peter says irritably. _

_Stiles holds the phone away from his ear, trying to hide a loud groan. They were his plans and Peter knows it… Peter hadn't even known what to do when he had come to him with the information that he had… until Stiles had spoken the word 'Blackmail'. Peter was just too arrogant to admit when he was stupid. _

_"__Not the point, Peter…" Stiles cuts in, trying to end the conversation. He doesn't like having to talk to Peter longer than he absolutely has to. _

_"__What are we going to do?" He asks a moment later, his voice soft and small… though he wouldn't admit it… He was kind of hoping that Peter would call the whole thing off. He was starting to have doubts about the validity of this plan…Plus, Scott's face this morning had made a chink in his armor. He just didn't know if he could go through with this._

_Peter sighs, long and hard, before saying, "You fix it, that's what… Now don't call me again until you have it all straightened out." _

_Peter hangs up the phone, leaving Stiles even more unsure and hesitant than before. _

* * *

"Well, well, well… If it isn't my old friend, Stiles Stilinski …" Peter Hale smirks, his arms folded over his chest as he leans against his sports car. Peter hasn't changed a bit in the past three years; he still wears an arrogant and annoying smirk upon his face like a gold medal… like he's a god… and Stiles doesn't know how to feel about that. Even though Stiles himself hasn't changed much either, he still feels like he's better off than Peter. Peter can't hide who he is… he's a con artist. And Stiles isn't so sure that _he_ ever was… or maybe he's the most cunning of them all.

Stiles acknowledges Peter's presence with a slight nod of his head, pulling out the folded paper that he has stashed in his back pocket.

"Aren't you going to ask how Derek is?" Peter asks after a few moments of silence and Stiles ignores his question.

He doesn't care… that's not why he's here; He holds out the piece of paper in his hand, but Peter doesn't take it.

"Here's my father's signature," Stiles says after a few minutes of waiting for Peter to stop smirking at him. He flings the neatly folded paper at him. "Learn it…"

"How rude, Stiles," Peter tsks, retrieving the paper from the pavement. "I thought we were better friends than that…" Peter smiles, knowing that he's getting underneath Stiles' skin. He wasn't going to make this easy; he was going to hold this favor over his head until the day he died—which was, thankfully, soon.

"Now, I ask again, don't you wanna know about Derek?"

"Peter…" Stiles snaps, glaring. He's not looking to go down memory lane with this bastard… He's not planning to go down that particular lane at all. They have business to do and he wants to get it done.

"Just learn the damn signature and I'll meet you at the hospital tomorrow." Stiles finishes, fishing the two-hundred dollars he stole from his father's wallet out of his pocket and throwing it at Peter before walking back to his own car and driving away.

* * *

_Stiles never actually means to full-on stare at her… He likes to think that he's much more suave and evolved than that… or at least he is with all the other girls in his grade. But with her, he just can't help himself. She's too damn beautiful not to be a freaking creeper with and she fucking knows it. Hell, she's been torturing him for the past few months with her rocking body… ever since she heard about him asking around after her, seeing if she had a boyfriend or if she wanted to go out… At the time; he believed it would work exactly like it had worked on all the other girls he had pulled this routine on. _

_They would bat their pretty doe eyes at him and play shy and coy before they threw all the inhibitions out the door and let him fuck their brains out. The he tosses them aside and moves on to the next board… but, of course, Lydia Martin had to be different. _

_She hadn't come running to him with any of the usual reactions he tended to get. In fact, she hadn't reacted at all. She just shrugged her shoulders indifferently at his date proposal and went on her merry little way with Allison trailing behind her. It had angered him… It had made him so fucking hot that he couldn't even stand himself for the rest of the day. _

_Yes, Lydia Martin was different… and he fucking liked it. _

_"__Are you going to take me out on a date already or just keep staring holes in the back of my head?" Lydia says out of nowhere two weeks later when they're sitting in AP English. _

_Stiles drops his pencil like it's on fire, a little ashamed of being caught off guard, before saying, "What?"_

_She sighs, her whole body tightening up in annoyance. "I don't like playing games for too long, Stillinski. I've had my fun making you all hot and bothered… Now, I just want to fuck you," she says with a roll of her eyes and a wicked smirk on her big, red lips and Stiles knows instantly that they are going to get along just fine… because Lydia Martin is a force to be reckoned with and Stiles is too. _

_"__Now, I'm going to say this real slow so your perverted mind can understand it… Are you going to take me out on a date or am I just wasting my time?" She cocks her eyebrow, waiting impatiently for his answer._

_And Stiles smiles slyly before answering. "How's the restaurant on Vine sound?"_

* * *

He came with a hard grunt, falling on top of her as softly as he can. He buries his nose deep into her hair, breathing in her scent, relishing it. To Stiles, it was one of the best things about having sex with Lydia—the unique scent she put out after sex and her beautiful body and breasts combined to make Lydia a deadly combination. She always knew she was the shit and she let everybody else know it too.

They had never really talked much of importance after sex. Well, they never really talked much about anything personal… Sex is all they ever had and Stiles is fine with that. He isn't much of a talker anyway and Lydia always hated useless and aimless conversation. But for some reason as they lay there… limbs curled up around each other and breathing heavily… the silence has become suffocating. He suddenly wants to say something, to say everything he's been going through for the past two days, everything he's ever done. He wants to finally show Lydia his full deck of cards, to finally stop hiding… but he doesn't know how.

It isn't how their relationship goes… It's always been about the chase with them and, even after all this time, they still play the cat and mouse game. They've never been straight forward with each other… there just isn't any fun in that… and for the first time ever, it makes him sick to his stomach.

"Are you going to Malia's party?" he asks after awhile, when his breathing has gone back to normal and all the emotional shit swirling around his head has finally become silent. He rolls off of her, leaning over the edge of her queen-sized bed for his pants to retrieve the packet of cigarettes out of his back pocket.

He should probably stop smoking now that he's got cancer… but fuck it; he's going to die anyway. He flicks the Zippo open and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a puff.

Lydia coughs a little before raising her eyebrow. She's not stupid; she knows what he's digging at. He isn't as sneaky in his affair with Malia as Lydia is with Jackson. He doesn't know if because it's just not in his nature to be clever about these types of things or if it's because he just doesn't give a shit… Or maybe, it's because in the deepest part of his heart, he wishes she would say something or show some sign that she actually cares that he's banging one of her supposed 'Best Friends'.

Stiles silently scoffs; he would more than likely get a rise out of her if he sleeps with Allison than his carnal endeavors with Malia ever could… and he's thought about going there a couple of times just to piss her off when she's being a bitch…but he always stops himself. If he's being honest, he's always been too afraid that Lydia would never forgive him if he ever went there.

"Of course," she replies a few moments later, a cold mask stamped across her flawless face. Her whole body has stiffened for some reason and there's tension visibly rolling around in her shoulders. She feels even farther away from him than ever before… and once again, he wants to say something meaningful, something to make her feel better and become close to him again—or as close as Lydia can get to a person like him… but, as always, he says nothing at all.

"Cool," He retorts, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke in her direction before saying. "You ready to go again?"

**TBC...**


	4. Go Slowly

**come here/ come slowly to me/ i've been waiting, waiting patiently**\- (go slowly, Radiohead)

* * *

_"__Stiles Stilinki, the love of my life… What can I do for you handsome?" Kira says lightly, a wide smile playing on her lips._

_Stiles can't help but grin back; Kira was, after all, his favorite lesbian in the entire world. "Kira, my love, my light…" he says dramatically, a whimsical tone to his voice. "Have I ever told you how much-" _

_ "__Cut the shit and tell me what you want, Stiles," Kira snorts, rolling her eyes. She could always see right through his bullshit._

_He shrugs, cutting to the chase. "Dirt on Derek Hale," he says simply._

_She cocks an eyebrow, "Last time I checked, you didn't need my help in that department." Kira closes her locker with a click. _

_"__I mean new and more interesting dirt…" Stiles elaborates, shifting on the balls of his feet in subtle excitement. "I need to show Mr. Hale that you have to face the consequences of trying to fuck over Stiles Stilinki," he huffs. "So… what do you think?" _

_Kira smirks. "Well, what do you have in mind?" she asks._

_"__I was thinking of a tasty and ridiculously hot new freshman for Derek Hale to sink his teeth into," he says, already knowing the answer Kira's clever mind will come up with. _

_He knows he's got her reeled in when she says wickedly, "I think I may know just the person." _

* * *

His thumb hovers over the contact flashing on the screen of his iPhone, his hand shaking, his breath shallow, and his nerves jumbled. His brows furrow as he continues to stare at the name on the screen. After all this time, he still hasn't erased the contact from his list… It's still stored away in the memory of his phone… in his speed dial.

It's been three years and he still has _Kira's _phone number etched in his brain—every single number still ready to roll off the tip of his tongue if asked—as well as in his phone.

He throws the phone on Lydia's bedside table with a thud, rubbing his forehead with his fingers, wiping away some of the sweat that has started rolling down onto his cheek from his brow.

He sighs as he hears Lydia turn the shower on. "You coming?" she yells softly from the bathroom.

He just sighs again and slowly pushes away the covers and gets up from the bed. He's really is going soft, isn't he?

* * *

"God, Stiles! You greedy bastard…" Lydia exclaims light-heartedly, pushing him away from the showerhead with a playful shove. "You do this every fucking time; you just take over all the hot water until I have none…I need to take a shower too, you know?"

He raises his eyebrow, a wicked glint in his eyes.

"Well, I did offer to hold you under the water with me," he says with a lopsided grin, wiping the water from his eyes. "But as I recall, you have this—ridiculous, I might add—rule about no hanky panky in the shower… So really, it's your own fault I got all the hot water," he finishes with a teasing shrug of his shoulder.

"Hanky panky…?" Lydia scoffs, laughing. "Jeez, Stiles, update your vocabulary… Come back to the present, please," she says sarcastically, closing her eyes slowly as she leans her head back into the warm water, combing her fingers through the tangles of her strawberry-blonde curls.

Stiles reaches for the bottle of shampoo that is always sitting on the edge of the bathtub, squeezes a big glob into the palm of his hand, and begins scrubbing it into his scalp. The smell of lavender intermixed with sunflowers is swirling around in the hot steam of the shower. The smell begins to fill up his nostrils in an almost intoxicating assault of his senses, making him feel calmer and more alive than he has in a while.

The smell of Lydia's body wash, shampoos, and conditioner always did have an odd way of setting him at ease when he began to feel the whole world caving in on him, although he'd never admit to that. All these lovely smells had been one of the reasons that he had been so drawn to Lydia all that time ago… It somehow reminded him of his mother.

"Stop it…" she says after he squeezes the third glob of shampoo in his hand, her fingers still running through her hair as she pops one eye open. "Before you use all of my shampoo too," she smiles knowingly at him, like she knows a secret about the deepest, well-hidden parts of him that he's not even privy to. On any normal day, that would unnerve him but he's feeling really compassionate today so he just gives her a warm smile in return.

"It's not like you can't buy more," he says simply, squeezing an extra amount of shampoo in his hand just to annoy her, but she just smiles back.

* * *

"Stiles…?" Lydia asks a few moments later, freshly showered, her damp hair cascading down her back in curly waves as she sits down in her expensive red velvet robe. He almost feels an odd affection for her as he watches her comb through the tangles in her hair, humming quietly and sweetly. She looks like an innocent and normal teenager… someone who he could see himself loving and spending the rest of his life with… not the raging, vindictive bitch that he knows she can be. It's almost peaceful to know that she hadn't been born a scamming leech like him.

"Yeah," he murmurs, water dripping from his hair onto his face as he puts on the clean Dickey slacks and gray flannel shirt that Lydia tends to have carelessly lying around in her bedroom on the off chance that he might actually like to spend more than fifty minutes in her presence.

He grabs a forgotten towel lying next to him and wipes some of the water off his face.

"Where did you get that bruise on your left hip from?" she asks seriously, as she continues to brush through her hair, her fingers working in tandem with the black comb. She has that odd look on her face again like she had the other day… a fine mixture of concern and curiosity swipes across her beautiful face, making her look wise and sincere.

"Practice," He says quickly, feeling generous enough to offer her that, even though he wants to roll his eyes … He usually just ignores her when she asks questions he doesn't want to answer. "Finstock's been riding us really hard all week for the game tomorrow."

"You've had that bruise for the last two weeks," she says back, glaring mildly. She sounds like she's genuinely taken aback back by his annoyance and his evasive answer. He does roll his eyes this time. One nice day and she reverts to a moon-eyed daft school girl looking for true and tender love. She's a lot more clever and glamorous than that; she's his equal in the art of manipulation and he's vaguely angered by her seeming stupidity. She supposed to be a genius, right?

He sighs before saying, "Forget it, Lydia…" He finishes tying his left shoe before looking at her with a sneer on his face. "Just stick to the things you know, huh? Shopping, money, and giving me head."

Her eyes widen slightly before her usual cold mask of indifference slips back onto her face and her closed off expression spurs him on. He knows now that whatever vile thing he says will be taken with a grain of salt and an equally sharp edged retort. He stands up, stalking over to her and looms over her, leaning into her space with a barely contained rage radiating off him.

"So… get on your knees, Martin, and do what you do best," he orders as he unzips the fly of his pants and stares at her with a scowl. "Suck my dick."

"Fucking jerk…" she spits venomously, shoving him violently away from her. A brief flash of hurt flickers across her blank face, disgust along with it, as she yanks her bedroom door open so hard that the door nearly comes unhinged.

"Get the fuck out!" she shouts as he already makes his way through the door before she tells him to. She slams the door behind him, the walls vibrating with her barely contained rage.

He just walks out of her house, slamming her front door behind him and revving out of her driveway, showing no respect for her neighbors.

* * *

He slams the door to his Jeep with loud bang in the quiet air of the cemetery, letting the evening breeze cool his hot face. He has no idea what compels him to come here anymore than he knows what had pushed him to suddenly scroll through his contacts list for Kira's number… He's just there, looking lost and confused, and seeking out of his comfort zone for something that he can't put a proper name to.

He slowly makes his way through the columns, rows of grave markers. Some are unmarked, only a wooden cross indicating that they had once existed and that someone had cared for them about them in their afterlife. Some only have poorly crafted gravestones, showing that they had been of lower class before they died, but they seemed to get more love than the big and flashy ones, like whoever had ever buried them came regularly and cleaned up their grave site, leaving flowers or rocks to show respect. Those graves looked like they continued to get the same kind of attention that his mother's grave had once gotten.

But his grave he stops at looks like people have gone out their way to desecrate it. Obscenities have been left in permanent marker and with a heavy hand, some craved with a knife. The flowers that have been left there are dying, wilting away to nothing, and the ground looks greatly disturbed by either grave robbers or anger townies who will never forget what he had done that day three long years ago.

_'__Go to hell, Scott McCall!'_ is the one insult that stood out amongst the others to Stiles, written in faded red marker, the words scribbled violently over the 'beloved son' part of his gravestone. Stiles feels like crying, shouting at the top of his lungs at the people who ruined this grave. Scott doesn't deserve what they're still dishing out about him…

Stiles does. He knows the trust, knows he pushed Scott to the brink of his sanity and for that _he_ deserves it all…But he does nothing; says nothing.

He just goes back to his jeep, gets the cleaning products that he has stored in the trunk of his car, and goes about scrubbing off the harsh words… like he does whenever he visits Scott McCall's grave.

* * *

"Claudia…" His father mumbles drunkenly when Stiles walks through the front door of his house a few hours later. His father is slumped across the expensive La-Z-Boy recliner he favors so much, his equally expensive brand of beer leaking droplets of the liquid from the bottle dangling from his hand onto the shaggy rug that his mother had bought when he was younger.

"No… Dad, it's me," Stiles says when his dad tries to get up and greet him like he would back when his mother was alive. "It's Stiles," he adds a few moments later when his dad blinks at him, confused by the tone of voice he's using.

Stiles sighs, at his father's dumb, drunk expression… He's in no mood to appease his father's drunken confusion tonight. If he wants hallucinate about his dead wife, than let him, but he's doing it in his bedroom. Stiles is too tired to look after his father tonight.

"Come on, old man…" He puts his hands underneath his dad's armpits and pulls him upright, beginning to head toward his dad's bedroom. "Time for bed."

"I won big today, love," he slurs, wobbling a little before making himself stand straight again. "It's not big enough to buy you anything, sweetheart… but we'll be able to pay some of the bills." He finishes by stroking Stiles' cheek lovingly with his dry hands… something he'd never do if he was sober.

Stiles just pushes his dad through the door of his bedroom and onto the king sized bed. "How much did you lose?" he snaps a moment later, taking off the old man's Doc Martens and loosening the man's work tie.

"Not much," his dad says timidly, "Not anything like last time anyway, hon." He smiles at Stiles before passing out cold.

Stiles shakes his head, _not like last time,_ running through his head. He digs in his father's pockets for the money and gambling stub showing his lost wages. The pale stub reads five thousand dollars and Stiles sighs in relief.

No, it was nothing like last time.

**TBC...**


End file.
